


A nut-cracking case

by Annandherminions



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annandherminions/pseuds/Annandherminions
Summary: After John wakes up from his comma, things move slowly for a while in Backer Street. Then, Lestrade arrives with a new case that involves the murder of two members of the Imperial Russian Ballet Company, the Russian mafia and maybe even Moriarty. However, the biggest danger may not come from the murderer but from the case itself. As Sherlock begins to identify himself to much with one of the victims, his feelings might betray him. Together, John and Sherlock will have to face evil complots, trained assassins, ballet dancers, sword fights, mouse kings and, maybe, even true love.





	1. The sleeping beauty

**Author's Note:**

> I'm spanish and as much as my english has improved over the years, I stil comit some mistakes. So I wanted to thank my own personal assistent and godmother: This story is being edited by the fantastic unicornglitternutellacookie, whom you may follow, if you want, on tumblr. She has not only helped me improve my writting, but without our brainstorming, the plot of this adventure would be much weakier and nonsensical. Hope you enjoy this.

Chapter 1: The sleeping beauty  
Sherlock had spent so much time in that infernal hospital room, he could have written two entire novels. In the hours spent there, he could have solved over 200 cases (or so he says), finished his experiments on perfumes and fragrances and their relation to people, read up on the latest volume on criminology and written a letter to the author pointing out all the mistakes. Yet, he didn’t. His days in that white, boring closet the doctors called a room were spent solely around John. He played the violin to him, even though the man probably couldn’t hear it. He composed two songs for him, one about loss and one about the hope of him awakening. He took Rosie to see him and read fairy tales to them. Stories with happy endings, where the knight was always on time to save the damsel in distress and the damsel never was shot. He read anything he could get his hands on to John, actually: the paper, his blog, the Silence of the Lambs novel, a book about astronomy… He sat next to the bed and watched James Bond movies with John, fully paid attention for the first time, and imagined what his best friend would say if he was awake. He made Lestrade bring his chair from Baker Street and slept there, next to John, for an entire month.  
Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade visited often, begging him to leave for a while. But he didn’t. Harriet also came by. The first time, she only stayed for no more than five minutes. She was surprised to see Sherlock there and definitely did not appreciate it. It was obvious to Sherlock that she blamed him for what had happened. She had also been drinking, her hands shaking uncontrollably and hidden in her pockets. She had stopped by only to leave some flowers and then she was gone. The second time, she said “Hello,” and asked him to leave the room. He didn’t want to, but he did. When she came out she had washed her face to hide the tears and seemed in a hurry. Her hands were still shaking, and when she touched Sherlock’s in a fast goodbye, he put a card between them. It was a help number for Anonymous Alcoholics. He thought she might need it. The last time she came in, she wasn’t alone. A dark haired woman accompanied her, their hands touching as she entered the room. She didn’t ask him to leave this time, and although she still disliked him, she seemed to be okay with his presence. She left a new, expensive tablet on the table, wrapped up in a beautiful red lace. “For John”, she said. “So that he can write on his blog anywhere he goes”. She asked Sherlock to take care of him and she left.  
John’s attack was plastered on the news everywhere the first few days. The famous blogger being shot was something exciting for the media to talk about. That was another reason Sherlock had decided to stay there. Going home meant facing the reporters. After less than a week Mrs. Hudson started bringing mail that had been delivered to Baker Street. People saw the incident and send cards and letters. The women and men whose cases they had solved wrote to them, brought flowers and gifts. The boys from the Geek Interpreter sent a comic strip, in which both Sherlock and John were represented as superheroes. The case they solved was stupid and wrong, obviously perpetrated by Sherlock’s female butler, and John’s lips and eyes were inaccurately drawn. Nevertheless, he read the story out loud, showed the pictures to his comatose companion and smiled with the narrated ending.  
“Finally our case was closed. Another problem solved by the masters. And so it seems that we reach an end. However, this is just the beginning of what would become the story , the legend, the adventures of the two greatest heroes” he read. “There is one last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. When life becomes too strange, too impossible or frightening, there is always one last hope: Two men waiting in the shadows of the night, like they’ve always been there and they always will; Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”  
He knew John would love this part, that’s what he liked about the cases, after all. The adrenaline, the excitement, solving the impossible, romanticising the events. He smiled sadly as he glanced one last time at the last page. Sherlock was on top of one building, in the middle of the night, his black coat waving like a cape. John stood on the roof of another building beside him, looking down at the pedestrians in the street. “It’s a nice drawing,” he muttered, “although a little too heroic for me. There is no final kiss, but I guess that only happens in fairy tales, doesn’t it?” He turned the comic around to show John the last page, as he had been doing all along. Not that he expected any changes. He had read every book and study written about comatose people, ever since John came out of the operation room. The doctors affirmed that talking to the patient would help him wake up, but there was no empirical proof to indicate so. It was clear to him why they would make such a claim. It didn’t help the victim, but the family and friends. And it did help, somehow. Sherlock liked talking to John, even if nothing changed, even if it felt like he was grabbing to the last inch of hope.  
So he didn’t expect it, when this time, he got an answer. Although it really wasn’t an answer so much as a bunch of deep incomprehensive sounds. He looked up and there he was. John’s eyes were open, ever so slightly, like it was an effort to keep them open. His green greyish irises stared directly at him. Sherlock didn’t notice the comic slipping his fingers and falling to the ground. He just swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to wake up from that wonderful dream. He had imagined this instant a thousand times during that month, thought of every possible thing he could say, decided to confess his feelings in the greatest of speeches. Instead, he whispered “John”. John blinked twice, then slowly closed his eyes again, and before falling one last time into a deep sleep, a sound came out of his lips. It was nearly impossible to understand and Sherlock only could decipher “Hi”. Just about right for the greatest consultant detective to miss the second word spoken. The part where John said “love”.  
Sherlock stood up from his chair. His muscles hurt after having stayed in the same position for hours. He took his friend's hand in his one and said, “I’ll find the one who did this to you. I’ll keep you save. I promise.” Then he was gone, in search for the nurse, the doctor, Lestrade, Mycroft and anyone else who could be of assistance.


	2. Tale as old as time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is slowly entering a boring routine after waking from his coma. With Sherlock never around, the daily inconveniences of live start to bug him.

Chapter 2: Tale as old as time  
Six months later  
John looked at his shopping list and sighed. He nearly forgot to buy the night diapers for Rosie. He walked slowly down to the third aisle where the baby products were to be found. The lights blinked above him as he searched for the right brand. Rosie had turned out to be quite a posh lady when it came to wearing diapers. She started crying whenever they tried to put her something different from her usual brand. A woman passed next to him with her cart. She smiled at him, but he didn’t return the greeting. He was too tired to do so, too bored with his life to even try. When he finally found the diapers his mood only got worse. They were seated in the top shelf and he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach them. He grabbed a package with one hand while leaning on the shelf with the other. Of course, his luck today being what it was, two other packages came down with the one he was holding. Instead of putting them back up he decided to buy them as well, just so he didn’t have to go back there for a while. It would be great if Sherlock started doing the shopping again, as he had done the first weeks after he woke up from the coma. But for that to happen they had to actually talk about it. And since the madman was nowhere to be seen lately, they wouldn’t. He left the supermarket carrying two bags in each hand and thinking that they should buy a damn cart. There were too many diapers, baby powder bottles, wipes and porridge to buy along with all the food Sherlock never ate, to carry by himself. All of a sudden, his phone vibrated. John’s instincts immediately took over. Not many people texted him, in fact, only one did so continuously. And John was always prepared to jump into battle. However, it was difficult to do in his current state. He tried to maneuver the bags into one hand, in order to grab his phone with the other, but he realized he had to stop to do so. No running to Baker Street in this situation. Then, somebody bumped into him. The bags landed on the floor, the food fell out of them… It was a huge mess.  
“I’m so sorry,” the man whom he had collided with exclaimed in a thick russian accent. He was a good looking guy, tall, thin and in shape. The dark bags under his brown eyes made him look older than he probably was, and as he helped John pick up the disaster, he looked more than once behind his shoulder. John frowned, having had too many bad encounters with strangers while walking close to Baker Street. Was he being followed, just a lunatic or was he waiting for someone? He didn’t have time to ask, the man helped him with the last bag, apologized again, and disappeared. John got back on his feet again, and looked at his phone. “Remember to buy the carrot porridge. My investigations have shown that it’s Rosamund’s favorite. SH” said the message. How did Sherlock know he was shopping? They hadn’t seen each other at all that day. He was gone somewhere. So how the bloody hell did he know? He shook his head in frustration. No, he hadn’t bought that porridge, he wasn’t going to do so now.   
Back in Baker Street he juggled again with the bags to open the door and found Mrs. Hudson playing with Rosie on the carpet.  
“You should get yourselves a nanny, dear. I’m happy to help but I’m not your babysitter or housekeeper,” she said while a big stuffed pink elephant danced in her hands. By the noises Rosie made, she seemed to agree with the woman. He didn’t bother to give an answer as he walked to the kitchen and started unpacking... Yes, they needed a babysitter. Better said, he needed a babysitter. He had closed his consult for a long time now and he had to reopen this monday if he wanted to maintain any of his old clients. However, for some inexplicable reason, he continued to put aside the search for a nanny. He hadn’t contacted any agency yet, or put any ad. To be honest, he was secretly hoping Sherlock would lend him a hand. If his monster was around when he started interviewing babysitters, it would be so much easier to get rid of the useless ones, the ones who drank or smoked, or watched TV instead of taking care of Rosie, from those that would actually do good work. Only two problems stopped him: first, he needed to talk with Sherlock for more than five minutes straight, get his attention, and make him stay while the interviews took place. Second, he was afraid there would be no babysitter who would want the job if Sherlock was there during the interviews.  
“By the way, a man came in not long ago asking for help. It’s a pity you aren’t taking cases anymore, he seemed quite scared. Talking about his loved ones in danger or something. It was difficult to understand him, he spoke too fast and with a strange accent. I felt bad for sending him away.”  
“What?” John hadn’t been paying much attention to what Mrs. Hudson wa saying, too busy looking for space in the fridge to put the groceries.   
“I said that it’s too bad you’re not accepting cases anymore.” she repeated.  
“Yes we are.”  
“Well, that’s not what Sherlock said.”  
John closed the fridge door at once. Sherlock was not taking cases anymore. Sherlock was never at the flat. Sherlock was not telling him anything. Where did he go every morning? Why didn’t he include him? He froze with a frightening idea. Was he on drugs again? John had been watching Sherlock ever since the incident with Culverton Smith. Even after he came back from the hospital they followed a routine. Mycroft was in there, too. He kept a close eye on Sherlock, made sure he didn’t go to that place again. At least that’s what he had told John.   
“You said the man who came here had a strange accent,” he commented, trying to turn back to his normal self.  
“Yes, Eastern, maybe.”  
“Was he by any chance around 1 meter 85, tall brown haired, brown eyed, thin, and in shape?”  
Mrs. Hudson looked at him in shock.   
“Don’t tell me you are turning into Sherlock? We have enough with one of his kind.”   
John smiled.  
“No, Mrs. Hudson, we wouldn’t want that.” he said.  
Since it was sunday, he spent the day with Rosie. It had turned into one of his greatest pleasures to be with her and make her smile. For so long he had been alone. And even after meeting Sherlock, he had known he would never get to have a real family with real happiness. So having Rosie, someone to care for, someone that needed him and that could correspond his love, was a dream come true. There was no feeling better than seeing a part of him slowly grow into something beautiful, knowing that nothing bad would ever happen to her, because he wouldn’t allow it. Knowing that she would grow up safe, happy and feeling at home. It was an amazing feeling. He felt like he finally could be useful in the world. So he played with her for hours, and by the time the night arrived she was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep. John placed her in her little bed in his room upstairs, turned both walkies on and took one with him downstairs, went to the bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit, sat on the couch, turned the telly on and waited for Sherlock to arrive. Time passed as he jumped from one channel to the next. At midnight the first horror movies started playing out. He found himself watching Nightmare on Elm Street, even though, after his coma dreams, he had made a silent promise to avoid the genre. He lowered the volume so the screams wouldn’t wake up Rosie. After Johnny Depp’s messy death, he fell asleep.   
The door rustled and the floor creaked. However, it wasn’t until the lights blinked on that John awoke.  
“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”   
Sherlock’s voice was soft and low. His jacket had dust on it, his scarf was loose, his eyes reflected his exhaustion. He sounded as tired as he looked. Probably just as tired as John felt as he stretched his muscles and moaned. He saw Sherlock glancing at the first aid kit but remained silent.  
“I’m not using drugs again. I promised I wouldn't” he said, and he seemed hurt.  
“How was your day, honey?” John asked sarcastically. “Mine was great. I went out shopping, changed diapers, and found out we don’t accept cases anymore. Why don’t we accept cases, exactly?”   
“I have no time for consulting right now. I’m working with the government in a difficult...”

“Bollocks,” interrupted John. He felt too tense and frustrated to put up with Sherlock’s bullshit, but he knew that getting angry at him would not help in this situation. Sherlock only reacted in two ways in those situations, either by joking and trying to make him forget the problem, or by admitting fault to anything and everything and not changing his methods at all. So he took a deep breath before he spoke and tried his best not to ground: “You know, after I woke up, I agreed to come back to Baker Street because I thought it would be best. I had to recover and I needed help with Rosie. I’m really grateful for everything you have done. But I’m not going to continue living in a place where I seem to be a stranger. If you don’t want to include me in your life, if you’re not going to be around because of me, it will probably be best for me and Rosie to leave.”

Sherlock’s blue eyes open widely in confusion and worry.   
“It has nothing to do with you, John. I’ve had a very occupied calendar lately, that’s all.”  
“Well, I wouldn’t want Rosie and I to intrude in on your busy life.” He muttered in his deep, silent angry voice.   
Sherlock’s hand went up to his hair in an all too familiar movement. “You have a daughter to take care of, John. You can’t get shot again.”  
Finally the truth. John’s anger was swept right away as soon as he heard those words. Sherlock was afraid. Sherlock cared. He never got to see that part of him. Sometimes, he even dared to believe it didn’t exist. Sherlock wasn’t there when he awoke in the hospital. He helped him a lot, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. He never looked like he actually liked lending a hand. So for him to get a glimpse at the heart under the skin, it seemed worth it. He hated himself for even thinking that it was worth it to go to hell and back just to see that his flatmate cared for him. If that wasn’t a low blow to his self esteem, then he didn’t know what was. Then again, he hated seeing his friend in such a vulnerable position.  
“Look, we are in this together” he started, and he had to stop for a second because his words sounded too cheesy and romantic for his own sake. ”I was shot when I was on my own. I was drugged and hidden under a bonfire when I was on my own. You had to commit fake suicide when you were on your own, and you were shot by my murderous wife while we were apart. So maybe, just maybe, we should try to stick together. It seems to be the only healthy solution.”  
Sherlock smiled ever so slightly.  
“You are the doctor,” he answered and walked to his room. Before entering, he turned one last time and asked, “Do you still want me to take your drug test?”.  
John shook his head in denial. He trusted Sherlock. He always did. He still wanted to clarify some things, but then his walkie sounded and he had to go upstairs to attend to Rosie. It was early in the morning, and he had to go to work the next day. Maybe it was better to continue the discussion another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @unicornglitternutellacookie for her fantastic editing


End file.
